Game Of Life
by Sky Samuelle
Summary: AU fic. Nikita and Michael meet in a different environment...


Game of Life  
  
It is madness, says reason. It is impossible, says experience. It is what it is, says love. - Erich Fried  
  
  
  
Michel turned over the pages of a book recently published from a prestigious editor, nervous because those tales were prevedible and poorly written. Reading the beginning of the first one and few paragraphs of the third and the fifth ones was enough for evaluating the presumed quality of the work, and he got irritated, because his conception of Literature forbade him to think that they could consider to publish book so ugly.  
  
A not common perception for a universitarian student as he was. A student in Law with a brilliant mind, extraordinary results and a future full of promises, Michel was powerfully handsome and very cultured. His family, of low extraction social, fatigued hard to maintain his studies, and because of their sacrifices he applied with passion to win a scholarship and succeeded. He loved reading since he was a little boy, and spied in greed curiosity the lectures of his older sister Josephine instead to play out with his brothers Adam and Jerome. The Library across the street had looked like a sacred refuge in that terribly annoying afternoon. When Renè Dian, his roommate, had literally dragged him away from his studies to play the fool with their friends, Michel had not expected of having to put up with two couples in the middle of a hormonal crisis. He was trained to bear the heavy 24/7 making-up sessions of Jurgen and Simone, but assisting at the hideous spectacle of Renè courting Lisa LaFanne , and her petty comebacks and doe glances had permanently damaged his appetite .Thanking God for small miracles, perhaps all the flirtation of today meant that the girl would concentrated elsewhere her unrequited and surely unrequired interest toward him, even if Renè was not famous for his constancy in his love- errands. He was escaped at the first chance with a little credible excuse, and it displeased greatly, although everyone were too otherwise occupied to try to dissuade him with much vehemence, luckily.  
  
A cell phone squilling few steps away distracted him from his somber thoughts . A library is the Temple of Knowledge and any costumer should have the decency to not violate it walking inside with a cell on . After all, none would dream about telephoning in a church , wouldn't?  
  
He raised his eyes from the undeserving pages, ready to bestow upon the villain a distasteful and disdainful look, well aware of his capacity for intimidation.  
  
It was then that he saw her, and instantly reconized her, even with her head down.  
  
He knew her from University, knew everything of her, having provided to be detailiatedly informed through the anywhere-sintonized ears of Martin Schtoppell.  
  
Nikita Jones. His age. Student in Economy. Alone daughter of Phillip Jones, magnate of the Center Enterprises. Disponible, but not for him.  
  
From the first time his gaze was fallen upon her by accident, the day of his arrival in the dormitory, Michel had though that she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He had watched her from afar by almost two years now , like a some sick puppy in love, finding with horror that he couldn't or wanted stopping. She was so strikingly beautiful that she reminded of the sun so warm that hurt your eyes if you look at it too directly. But it wasn't just her beauty to link him to her, at least it pleased thinking that he wasn't a so shallow person. There was a such natural cheerfulness about her, and an energy radiating from her womanly form which was dazzling. She had that authentic easiness in the crowd missing in him, despite of being grown in a numerous family and maybe because of it, and a smile open and moving. Moving for him at least; it wasn't good for him imagining that other people shared his observations of her.  
  
He liked everything of her: her fierce and loose way of walking, her singing off key when she got drunk at a party, the absurd hats she wore, her way to mope distractedly her hairs.  
  
He would done anything to talk her once alone, and had did everything in his power to procure an occasion: going in parties where she went, befriend some of her acquaintances.  
  
But she was stayed unattainable, and he was stayed a victim of her allure.  
  
Every time he decided to get close to her and casually engage her in conversation, programming what he would spoke and what she would answered, he saw here there, in the spotlight where she was born and belonged, circumded from life-long friends popular and rich like her: Madeline Frayn ( daughter of celeber psychiatrist), Paul Wolfe ( son of the influent Judge Wolfe) , Carla Vasquez (Hispanic niece of Adrian and George Fourlis, the producers) Helmut Volker and Elena Vacheck (talking of sickening sweethearts potentially worse of Jurgen and Simone IF possible) .  
  
In those moments he lost his courage and retreated in the background, where he continued to observe her like the stalker he was becoming, afraid to ruin a dream, afraid to break his ideal of perfection and his hearth with it.  
  
Now she was close enough than he could inhale her delicious perfume, and talked very thickly in her cell , doing overdramatic gestures, unaware of everything and even of him, while smiled and trafficked in her huge electric-blue purse, matching her very fitting, very short and demure electric-blue dress.  
  
She talked and smiled at the Seymour guy at the other end, like if nothing in the world could bother her or disrupt her pleasant occupation, certainly not his half-disapproving, half-disarmed look.  
  
Michel knew that he was staring, and that if she would surprised him he would be ashamed as never in his life for his rudeness, she had always failed to notice of him. So he continued to watch her smiling and talking and laughing in her cell, all while still rummaging in her purse and peeking in books and journals.  
  
Her eyes were twinkling and she was like a little girl insatiably curious or mischievous or simply bored.  
  
One of her smiling looks unexpectedly flied upon him and settled there in speculation and private recognition. Her lips smirked seductively and her free hand waved flirtatiously.  
  
From close Nikita estimated her theoretically- secret admirer was far more attractive than at range; although she was way too much proud to encourage him plainly, she couldn't deny his intense and a bit scaring constant admiration of her was been the topic of many NC17 chatters between her and her best friend from the cradle, Maddie.  
  
Her eyelids fluttered and Michel struggled, temporarily in awe with her azure eyes and crisom mouth, to come up with a pretext to speak with her , wastedly.  
  
She, temporarily unable to effectively pay attention at anything her cousin was rambling in her ear, understood that the first move was up to her, since her knees were threatening to bend without her permission, and, temporarily putting at hold her call, distress at all perceivable in her request, asked him a friendly advice.  
  
While Nikita talked again, in spite of herself, in the phone she was beginning to loathe, he moved away to find an adequate strategy. It's his occasion and Michel put all his faith in the books, and looked desperately for the right book , the book that would seduced her, the book that will bring him to her. Finally he found it, opened it, took out a pen out his beast pocket and writed quickly, praying he was doing the right thing.  
  
Michel came to her, still telephoning, put his book in her hands and hurriedly went away, too embarassed to wait for her answer, helpless against his unexplainable shyness with the alone woman on whom he wished do an impression.  
  
Nikita launched his back a confused thank-you, turned in her hands the book- permanently ending her interminable call- disappointed and thinly irritated because she had not could keep the stunning man longer, damning her bad star and his hurry.  
  
She opened the book and stared stunned at the number of cell phone hand- written on the first blank page.  
  
Under it , she read : MICHEL SAMUELLE  
  
CALL ME FOR A COFFEE?  
  
She smiled and whenwhile a deep blush reached her cheeks.  
  
Better wait tomorrow to not look too anxious 


End file.
